


Jumpers

by yeaka



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Christmas, Established Relationship, Ficlet, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-22
Updated: 2014-11-22
Packaged: 2018-02-26 14:01:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,329
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2654630
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A badly dressed xmas morning.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Jumpers

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don’t own Harry Potter or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

The first time he wakes up, he’s not as warm as he’d like to be, and he rolls over into the familiar body of his husband, nuzzling into a shoulder and hooking his bare leg around a waist and keeping his eyes firmly closed. Something inside him knows it’s the one day a year he doesn’t have to go in for work, and as much as he’d probably hop to it anyway if he were awake, he isn’t, and instinct keeps him down. Strong fingers brush through his hair and someone murmurs for him to sleep, so Percy obediently slips back off. 

The second time he wakes up, he’s cold again, but rolling over doesn’t help, and no matter which way he kicks his feet, he can’t seem to find his personal heater. A few failed attempts, and he yawns, eyes opening halfway to double check. He’s alone. 

Their bed’s too big to be alone in. Percy rubs at his eyes and forces himself to sit up and face the day. Their curtains are closed, but there’s a hazy light beyond them that trickles through, in-between blurry shadows; it’s snowing. Another yawn and Percy stretches out his arms, ready to call out; it’s rare for Oliver to get up first. 

Then Percy notices the package on the end of the bed. It’s a messily wrapped, gaudy thing: the same red-and-green patterned paper his mother’s been using for years. He knows exactly who it’s from and what it is, despite the little scrap of paper on top in Oliver’s cursive: _G’morning, love. Wear this, please._ Percy snorts to himself. Not likely. 

He used to like getting Weasley jumpers when he was much, much younger. He thought it was a source of pride: proof, finally, that his parents loved him, even though the words he got were usually empty and all his siblings stole the bulk of the attention. Then Fred and George started needling him on how gangly he was, _is_ ; how he always sticks out of the too-big sweaters awkwardly, how if he’d pick up a broom sometime instead of being buried in books he might actually be able to fill it out like the rest of them. Now he understands just how ugly they are objectively: his mother has no sense of colour coordination and they always have a bunchy, unfinished sort of look you’d never find on a store-bought sweater. The giant ‘P’ always embroidered on the fronts also dredge up memories of more twin-taunting and Ron’s little snide laughs. 

He half hopes he’s wrong as he carefully peels always the wrapping paper, but no: it’s a large, purple, ‘P’-adorned sweater, again too big and somehow too long. He can tell before he even puts it on that it won’t fit. For a moment, he considers tossing it at the garbage can in the corner, but of course, he’s on a thin line with his parents nowadays, and then there’s Oliver’s note.

Oliver’s an idiot, but he’s Percy’s idiot, and on holidays more than ever, Percy’s grateful that his handsome celebrity husband sticks with him when even his own six siblings don’t. Percy spends an extra few seconds deciding, than hobbles out of bed—naked, as they always go to bed on Christmas eve, prepared to use his sleeping-in fund to the fullest. As he’s brushing his teeth in the attached bathroom, he hears a thunk downstairs and pauses, but when no other catastrophic sounds come up, he finishes getting ready. He puts his glasses on before he finally, begrudgingly dons the sweater. It’s much too large, just as he thought, and it extends down his hips, just barely covering his crotch. It almost completely covers his fingers. Oliver has no taste. 

Percy heads downstairs anyway. He only spares the living room a glance; their tree is modest, their presents small but meaningful, except for the big bag in the corner sent by Oliver’s agent—Quidditch fanmail. Oliver himself isn’t there, but Percy already knows where his husband is; the unmistakable scent of toast is in the air. 

He stops in the doorway of the kitchen to find Oliver facing the stove, frying eggs. The table’s set for two, but Percy couldn’t sit down if he wanted to. 

He’s busy staring at Oliver, who’s wearing, of all things, a Weasley jumper. _Just_ a Weasley jumper. His seems to be the right size—it clings to his muscular body, stretches over his biceps and bunches around his waist, hiked over his ass, exposing both taut cheeks to the open air. For a moment, Percy just watches that perfect ass and listens to Oliver’s off-key humming, his hips swaying ever so slightly on every third beat. 

Then Percy fails to stifle another small yawn, and Oliver glances over his shoulder, beautiful features twisting into a broad grin. “Just in time.” He gives the eggs another toss and turns around, taking the pan to the table so he can slide the eggs off onto their plates. 

The end of his cock is poking out of his sweater. On anyone else, Percy would probably find that off-putting. On Oliver, it makes his mouth water. The Gryffindor-red shine of the knit perfectly enhances Oliver’s sun-kissed skin, the pink tip of Oliver’s cock practically calling to Percy’s mouth. It’s more appetizing than the eggs. He barely even notices the gold ‘O’ on Oliver’s chest. It’s an imitation of Percy’s open mouth and wide eyes. 

Finally, he manages to lick his lips and murmur, “Good morning.” 

“’Morning.” Oliver practically tosses the pan back at the stove. Then he’s crossing the distance to where Percy’s frozen in the doorway. One of Oliver’s arms snakes around Percy’s waist, the other running up his back—long fingers in his hair guiding his head around. Oliver kisses his cheek, then the corner of his lips, and he tosses his arms around Oliver’s broad shoulders, going in for a lingering kiss all on his own. He keeps his lips closed even when Oliver’s tongue laps at them, because he knows if he starts that, he won’t be able to stop. 

Oliver pulls his head away, nuzzles into the crook of Percy’s neck, breathes him in and murmurs, “You look gorgeous in that.” Percy laughs half-humourlessly; that’s nowhere near true, especially in comparison to Oliver, who looks like a Greek god. But Oliver’s all coy smiles and little kisses that nudge Percy’s glasses askew, and Oliver purrs, “You’re so cute in it. I was hoping to bring you breakfast in bed and put it on you myself, but I figured you might get restless on me.”

Mewling both at the luxury of that idea and the feel of Oliver’s mouth, Percy sighs, “Your note should’ve told me to stay.”

“You wouldn’t have listened,” Oliver chuckles. The next kiss he presses to Percy’s lips would be hard enough to knock Percy over if Oliver weren’t holding him up. He obviously woke up hungry. Percy’s tempted to go back to bed and wait, although he’d rather do it without the garish sweaters that Oliver seems so fond of. Oliver looks good in his, _so good_ , but Percy’s starting to want him naked. Percy can already feel Oliver’s hardening cock pressing into his crotch through the knit. He half hopes it irreparably stains so they’ll have to throw the whole thing out. 

Oliver wastes a bit more time nipping at Percy’s jaw before whispering, “Do you want ketchup on your eggs?” Percy means to laugh.

He does manage to push Oliver back. A few firm shoves at Oliver’s hard chest and Oliver lets go of him, stepping away. Percy looks him up and down, from that stupid handsome face right down to his bare toes and his hemline riding higher up his cock. Licking his lips, Percy means to say yes to the ketchup. 

Instead, he grabs Oliver by the sweater and drags him abruptly down to the floor, hissing, “I want _you._ ”


End file.
